Lost at Sea and Three Times More
by HecateA
Summary: Fleamont Potter, like all other wizards, is not supposed to be fighting in the Second World War—and yet here he is. While he expected to find himself in trouble as a result of this latest bad decision, he never expected to find himself in the Caribbean and falling in love for a beautiful military nurse breaking just as many rules. Oneshot.


**Author's note: **Hi everyone; guess who managed to blend historical fiction and fanfiction? Hopefully me, this is someone's birthday present. Some notes on the history if you're curious, if not please skip this A/N. Anyways; because of where I grew up and the jobs and education in history I've had, I know a tad about Britain in the Second World War. I did as much research as I could about Jamaica during the war and Naval Nurses to flesh this story out. Many, many photos were used to try and tailor descriptions. I will admit that a story more specifically about Jamaicans fighting under the British flag during either world wars should include far more racism. The story ends with a reference to the Windrush Generation, though I definitely did fudge the dates to keep things moving a tad quicker. Enjoy!

**Dedication: **HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAMA BIRD!

**Hogwarts: **Assignment #1, Paleontology, Task #3 Write a fic set during World War II.

**Warnings: **Set in wartime and military hospital; permanent injury

**Disclaimer: **The following characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and this story derives from her original works, storylines, and world. Please do not sue me, I can barely pay tuition.

* * *

**Lost at Sea and Three Times Mores**

_We are two mariners_

_Our ship's sole survivors_

_In this belly of a whale_

_It's ribs are ceiling beams_

_It's guts are carpeting_

_I guess we have some time to kill_

-The Mariner's Revenge Song, The Decemberists

**Lost at Sea**

When Fleamont came to his senses, it took him an additional thirty seconds to put the pieces together and realize where he was—an infirmary. The ground beneath him wasn't swaying with the movement of waves, so he had to assume that he wasn't on the ship anymore. That being said, when he tried to sit up, he was immediately hit with a wave of dizziness so powerful, it knocked the breath out of his check.

"Oye mate, take it easy," someone chimed at him from his right in a deep voice.

"Excuse me miss, he's awake," someone else called—this time in a voice that bore no British accent at all.

"Mr Potter," another, softer and feminine voice, spoke up. Those two words alone captured his attention with all the intonation, rhythm, depth, and gravitas they carried—carried him away, that was. An equally soft hand came to rest on Fleamont's back, steadying him. "Mr Potter, I'm Nurse Thomas, you're in a Royal Navy Hospital, take a deep breath for me and try to stay calm…"

Fleamont blinked a few times until the world stopped spinning and turned around to look at the nurse. She was a dark-skinned woman with the most beautiful, clearest grey eyes Fleamont had ever seen—they may as well have been pewter. She wore a powder blue dress and a white pinafore, belted off by a navy blue belt, and a white cap which covered her hair. She sat and held him up with such sturdiness and looked at him with such steady, unblinking eyes that he instantly felt more grounded.

She offered him some water and only after he had taken a few sips did Fleamont manage to speak, though "speaking" might be a generous disclaimer for the slurred, pasty words that tumbled out of his mouth.

"There were U-boats on the radar—then the ship—" Fleamont mumbled.

"Yes, sir, you were on His Majesty's Ship _The Naiad_," the nurse explained calmly.

Fleamont's head spun again. "The others…"

"The others didn't make it, sir, I'm very sorry," the nurse said. "You are the only crewmember that has been found since the accident. You washed up close to here sir, you are in Jamaica."

"Jamaica?" Fleamont said. He supposed that explained the all-engulfing warmth that he felt all the way under his skin, not to mention the accents around him and the abundant light plunging through the windows. It was November, back home in England, a miserable time to be at war in a place and at a time that would've been miserable one way or another.

"Sir, let's have you lie back down, yeah?" the nurse said again.

"I can't be the only one who made it," Fleamont insisted, though he let the nurse do as she saw fit and ease him back down onto his cot. His head was relieved to find a pillow and his shoulders happy to no longer bear his weight.

"I'm very sorry, sir," the nurse said. Then she looked around them and lowered her voice. "I think you must've been the only wizard onboard, sir."

Fleamont nearly startled back to his upright position, but the nurse put her hand on his shoulder again.

"Shh," she said. She looked around. "I cast a Quietening Charm around us, shh."

"You're a witch, then?" Fleamont said.

"Magic works differently around the world, but yes, let's say that," she acquiesced. "I knew you were magic when they brought you in. It didn't make any sense—an able seaman from the Home Fleet, meant to be crossing the Atlantic, washing up in the Caribbean..."

He was as caught up with her voice and her accent as he was with what she was telling him. The way her 'r's were sometimes dropped, the way her vowels seemed to meld together… more pressing was the way that she seemed to talk just to him, nice and slow and as if he were the only person in the world. It seemed silly for Fleamont to have butterflies in his stomach at a time like this, but there they were.

"You had no wand," she said. "And I'm afraid we don't use wands around here and so you won't be able to replace it. But I still think you're a wizard because your injuries looked to me like you were splinched. Did you try to Apparate off the ship?"

Now that she mentioned that he was injured, it occured to Fleamont that he should have a look at himself. He'd been put in a hospital gown, but he saw a nasty cut along his leg that had been stitched up with neat blue threads by a surgeon. His left hand was also heavily bandaged, from the fingertips to the elbow, and Fleamont wondered how big a piece of himself he'd left behind. Now that he was actively reaching out to various body parts to see which ones remained well and accounted for, he also realized that the corner of his mouth felt stiff and unresponsive. Curiously enough he felt no pain, and he wondered if she'd taken the liberty of slipping him a pain-relieving potion of some kind. A splinching accident could barely be contained by Muggle medicine. He'd had success treating a dormmate at Hogwarts once with a mixture of dittany, sunflower oil…

"Maybe your magic took over and carried you from the wreckage when you were in the water," Euphemia suggested again. "The important this is that you are here now."

"I don't know," Fleamont said. "That doesn't sound like me. the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy forbids the implication of witches and wizards in military conflicts, after all."

"Of course," the nurse said. She smiled the smile of instantaneous allies; of two people breaking the same rules at the same nice. Somehow, it felt even more complicit that they'd broken those rules on opposite sides of the world and met only now. "My name is Euphemia."

"That's pretty," Fleamont said. "Well, you know mine."

"Yes," Euphemia nodded. "You had your dog tag with you and you have been with us for three days now."

"Three days," Fleamont said. "And how long before that did the _Naiad _go down?"

Fleamont's stomach sank. He had recently been transferred to the _Naiad _and her transatlantic routes from _Charybdis, _another Home Fleet vessel, and he hadn't known the other seamen and officials onboard very well—but still. That ship had gone down with many, many souls who deserved more than to be swallowed by the sea.

"A week," Euphemia said. "I believe the Navy has sent word to your family in England that you were here. They will probably report back that you are awake and healing soon, but things are sometimes slower and they do not care so much in the colonies. If you would like me to send word to them magically…"

"I would appreciate that," Fleamont said, a wave of genuine thankfulness washing over him. His father would be worried sick—he'd absolutely hated Fleamont's decision to withdraw from his potion master's apprenticeship to join a Muggle fight. At least Fleamont hadn't died—his father never would've let him live that down.

Euphemia smiled and stood. "I will bring you a letter and pen to write with now. For now I will lower the Quietening Charm around us and fetch the doctor."

"Alright," Fleamont said, making himself comfortable against his pillow. "Say, Euphemia? Nurse Thomas? You work here quite a bit, yes?"

"Yes," she said, nodding.

"Alright," Fleamont said. "So I'll see you again?"

Euphemia smiled. "You can see me as much as you want, Mr Potter."

**Lost in the Market**

Fleamont had been rather proud of how well he'd been able to maneuver his way around the hospital wing and its lovely garden on his crutches—so well, in fact, that he knew from some of the chattier nurses that if it weren't for how incredibly dangerous crossing the U-boat studded Atlantic was, he would have been discharged from the hospital and sent home to finish resting up his leg in his own bed. As it was, he'd been honourably discharged from His Majesty's Navy.

Nothing, however, had prepared him for the hustle and bustle and noise and colours and smells of the marketplace. Even on two legs, Fleamont most likely would have been overwhelmed and lost in the crowd. There were too many people and too many different kinds of fruits and artwork and fish and chickens everywhere and craftwear displayed by artisans on blankets... Fleamont stood out more than enough thanks to his absolute and complete whiteness, not to mention the confusion that must be written plainly across his face as he navigated this uncharted territory. The Patois around him was loud and quick, so Fleamont had absolutely no hope of keeping up even if he'd heard some of the nurses exchange in the language and had a Jamaican soldier teach him a few quick phrases.

"Mr Potter?" he heard someone say while he was lurking by a vendor selling mangoes that he had seen at least three times before, trying to figure out how he'd gotten to this particular part of the market and how on Earth he should go about getting out.

He spun around to the sound of his name and there was Euphemia—Nurse Thomas, he should call her, though he liked that he knew her name. He had the sense that nurses weren't supposed to disclose their names to patients, but every now and then Euphemia cast a quick Quietening charm and there they were in a bubble where she knew his name, he knew hers, and she slipped him news from the Wizarding world or updated him on the spells she was concocting in her home. She slipped sacks of herbs under his pillow to ward away nightmares about the shipwreck and served him extra fruit, since he was consistently boggled by staples like bananas or blown away by the freshness of guava.

It was strange not seeing her in her naval nurse's uniform; instead she wore a sky blue dress that cut off under the knee with short sleeves, with buttons down the front. It was also different to be able to see her hair, which she wore pinned back neatly. She had a basket under her arm full of flowers and she looked concerned at the sight of him.

"Nurse Thomas," he said, relieved for the familiar face.

"Mr Potter, I thought they had told you to be gentle with yourself and not to go far if you left the hospital," she said, her voice strict.

"Yes, well, I was curious," Fleamont said. "And I've read a lot about Caribbean spices and flora—it makes for some of the best potions ingredients in the world, they say…"

"And so because of this you decide to walk kilometers away from the hospital?" she asked again, arching an eyebrow.

"Well, that, and also I got quite lost," Fleamont admitted.

Euphemia smiled. At first she seemed to be holding it back, then her smile became bold and brilliant.

"I will show you the way back," she said. "And perhaps if there are a few things you really, _really _want to see I can help you find them along the way—but no detours!"

"I have a list," Fleamont blurted. Euphemia smiled even more.

"Lucky for you, Mr Potter, I am not opposed to spending a few hours with you. Come with me…"

**Lost in the Music **

He was sitting outside the hospital, just outside of it with the sun beating down on his face and his favourite tree's leaves splayed out above him.

Euphemia walked out of the hospital, changed out of her uniform and into a floral dress that seemed much more comfortable and much more attuned to the mischievous streak and dazzling smiles she'd sometimes shown him. It had been all the more amusing to him that she'd gotten stricter since she'd been promoted to the rank of Superintending Sister, since he'd seen her goof off in the market or laugh at the comics in _The Daily Prophet, _when she managed to procure a copy for him.

"Mr Potter," she said. "I should tell you to go back to your bed, but you never do as you are told."

"I don't," Fleamont admitted. "I'm also very shortly going to be sent home."

"I know," Euphemia said, though she looked uncomfortable as she fidgeted with the strap of her handbag.

"Things are going to calm down for you here," Fleamont said. The news of German surrender had reached Jamaica that morning. The Allies were officially occupying Berlin.

"I suppose they will," Euphemia said.

"They say there'll be a parade across Kingston tomorrow," Fleamont said. "Though I suppose there will be parties to go to tonight."

"There are," Euphemia said. "I am due to go to one."

"I won't hold you any longer, then," Fleamont said.

"No, I do not think I will be missing much," Euphemia said. She surprised Fleamont by sitting in the grass with him, putting her bag down and kicking off her shoes. She pointed her toes and stretched her feet, calloused and hardened by long hours and hard work. "I do not think there will be anybody there worth dancing with."

"It's V Day," Fleamont protested. "Everyone deserves a good dance, what with the bloody war finally over."

"Hmm," Euphemia mused. She turned to look at Fleamont, looked him up and down, and then got to her feet again. She offered him her hand.

"Dance with me," she said.

There was no music. She wasn't wearing shoes. She would have to help him to his feet because his leg had never quite healed and most likely never would.

But he did dance with her, or try very hard to, with a hand on the small of her back and another clasping her hand. One of her arms was strategically placed to help hold him upright, but he did like having one of them placed softly on his shoulder. He wasn't sure which one of them was leading the dance and whose head their music was coming from, but he liked the song they were swaying to, under the setting sun. He liked who he was dancing with.

"I suppose that's one convenient thing about music only you can hear," Fleamont pointed out. Euphemia looked at him curiously so he went on. "It never has to end, does it?"

Euphemia nodded, and a beat later she stopped—as if the strings and woodwinds in an unseen orchestra had suddenly vanished. Those pewter-clear eyes met his.

"Kiss me," she said.

There was no way it was a good idea. He was leaving tomorrow. She was a professional, hard-working, resectable (and beautiful and bright and mischievous) woman.

But he did.

**Lost in London**

Diagon Alley. He was just trying to find bloody Diagon Alley—a place he'd visited a thousand times to pick up jars of dried herbs, school robes, textbooks, owl pellets, and a thousand other things on a thousand trips before this one.

But London had changed during the Blitz, of course it had, and the storefronts framing Diagon Alley's entrance had changed leaving Fleamont very, very lost. Plus, London was very grey. It smelled of only one thing and that thing was smoke. The cold from the rain hung in the air and had burrowed under his clothes and into his skin, heading straight for the bones. The drizzle lasted all day, like an annoying guest dragging their feet towards but never quite making it out the door—unlike tropical rain which came like a flood, drenched everything in sight, and vanished.

He was flustered. The crowd pushed him on the sidewalk and he was having trouble keeping up on his crutch, the world around him too fast and too harsh and too unnecessarily cold. All Fleamont wanted to do was slow down, maybe step into an alley or a café, and take a breath to gather his bearings and find Diagon Alley. It seemed simple and it wasn't, and his flustered nature definitely, _definitely _wasn't helped by the unhappy butterflies in his stomach and the uncanny nausea that came with finding yourself lost in your own hometown.

**Found **

Since Fleamont hadn't been meant to be there, he'd worn his invisibility cloak and huddled under his favourite tree until he saw her emerge from the building. Then he pulled the cloak off, tossing it over the canvas bag he'd abandoned on the ground.

"Euphemia," he said. Something heavy was lifted off his chest when he said her name, saw her again, caught her attention, met her eyes, saw her lips part in shock…

"Fleamont," she said. She came towards him hastily, closing the distance between the two of them. "Fleamont, what are you doing here? How are you here? How did you…"

"I arranged for a Portkey," Fleamont said. Well, a series of Portkeys—the Atlantic, as it turned out, was quite big and difficult to cross, lending itself well to a relay race. But Fleamont didn't have time to explain that to her. "Come home with me."

"What?" Euphemia said.

"Come home with me or tell me how I can stay here with you because I don't know how but I would, I will," Fleamont said. "That is, if you want me. If you'll have… that. Me."

Euphemia looked at him in shock.

"I can't do it," Fleamont said. "I can't go back to my life, as if the war never happened—as if you didn't. I don't want to read _The Prophet _unless you're handing it to me and will laugh at the comics and look for mistypes with me. And I definitely don't think I can dance with any other woman in the world after dancing with you."

Euphemia looked at him a moment longer.

"The British, they are short on labour—nurses, they say—and they are offering work and citizenship to those who go to the so-called mother country," Euphemia said. She smiled. "I think the question, Mr Potter, is will you come with _me?" _

He did.

* * *

**Stacked with: **MC4A; Hogwarts

**Individual Challenge(s): **Folklore Focus; Gryffindor MC; Medic MC; Spring Rain; Seeds; Beastly Times; Old Shoes; Location, Location, Location; Themes & Things A (New Beginnings); Themes & Things B (Survival); Themes & Things C (Pillow); Themes & Things E (Dress/Skirt); Themes & Things F (Warmth); Ethnic & Present; Rian-Russo Inversion; Disabled; Setting Sail; Hold the Mayo; Short Jog; Yellow Ribbon; Yellow Ribbon Redux

**Word Count: **3051


End file.
